All The Little Things
by gilgameshforeternity
Summary: Sherlock gets cursed and turned into a kid, John gets to deal with the little detective. de-aged!sherlock title may change
1. Chapter 1

disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

(A/N) I can't resist writing this.

* * *

Sherlock is…adorable, he has to admit. John won't say it out loud, because if he did then a game of hide and seek would surely be his punishment, if Sherlock didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. They both avoid the subject of Sherlock's transformation and even though Sherlock only comes up to about waist height on John and looks like he's about 8, he still has the brain of the world's only consulting detective and isn't afraid to use it in defense of his current stature. Except, for all his big talk, John can still see the subtle changes that have accompanied his flat mate's new body, Sherlock sleeps next to him at night, with the reason that his bed is too big and cold now and John doesn't mind it, Harry and he had to share a bed when they were little.

He's notices that Sherlock has more of a sweet tooth now and John stops at Speedy's to buy a treat when Sherlock has been exceptionally good while they're out. He's noticed how Sherlock still uses his blue dressing gown even though they bought him a new wardrobe and it's rather amusing to watch him walk around in it with most of the fabric dragging behind him like cape. John doesn't mind, and honestly he enjoys it, when Sherlock clamors onto his lap and tucks his head into John's chest and clasps his little hands together to think. When he asked the reason for it, Sherlock simply replied "It's comfortable" and there was no more discussion about it after that.

All of Scotland Yard has seen and no doubt gossiped about the consulting detective's new body, and John is thankful that Lestrade keeps most of the nosy ones out of the crime scenes. Speaking of crime scenes, John nearly laughed his head off at the sight of everyone's faces when they showed up for the first time, with Sherlock looking like a mini version of himself in a replica of his coat that had showed up on their doorstep (Mycroft's doing no doubt). Explaining everything had been rather difficult, Sherlock didn't necessarily believe in magic and voodoo and the like, but after pissing off a woman deep into the occult on their last mission, he was beginning to believe after waking up a few days later a few feet shy of what he used to be. Everyone has skeptical looks on their face, till Sherlock starts deducing the hell out of the scene.

John watches quietly, like a silent guardian, he hovers near Sherlock and makes sure to listen to everything he says, no way was he going to let the kid run off after criminals in his current condition. That didn't stop him from trying though and John promised himself it wouldn't happen again when they ended up chasing a killer from his apartment through London's streets. John hadn't hesitated a moment to scoop Sherlock up before he got too far ahead and heave the kid onto his back. Small hands locked around his neck and he supported the detective with one hand as he took off after the killer. Sherlock spoke right into his ear, quickly explaining the man was unarmed or he would've turned on them both, all John had to do was incapacitate him and call the police. Yeah, easier said than done with a kid on your back that weighs about 40 pounds.

They corner the guy down in the underground and John doesn't let Sherlock argue when he pulls the kid from his shoulders and tells him to wait at a bench and not to talk to strangers, which Sherlock immediately takes offense to, but John is already gone. He watches John disappear among the night travelers and wrings his hands nervously and when he realizes he's doing it he shoves the infernal things into his pockets.

The minutes pass by painfully slow and Sherlock feels his phone buzz, a phone call from John and when he answers it the man sounds out of breath.

"I got him, we're by the next-"

"Yes John," he's just glad to hear his flat mate.

"Come over, stay on the phone okay?"

Hopping down from the bench Sherlock huffs loudly, but the exasperation is lost under his childish voice, "Really John, it's unnecessary."

"Indulge me alright."

"If I must."

A pause.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm still here and no one has kidnapped me yet."

"You say it like you're expecting someone to."

"There's barely anyone here, I'm a child all alone, it-"

"You're hardly a child."

"And yet you insist on treating me as such!"

He hears John chuckle and Sherlock brushes some wayward curls from his face and sees John up ahead, he hangs up the phone.

The case is wrapped up quickly, Lestrade thanks them again and they take a cab home, Sherlock falls asleep on the way and John has to carry his deadweight up the stairs. Not that he minds, he finds it endearing to watch sleepy, kid Sherlock brush his teeth and make a mess of his face. After they're cleaned up and changed into sleep clothes John turns the lights out as they head upstairs to his room. The stairs barely creak under Sherlock's small feet and when he gets to his room the kid is already under the covers, only a mop of curly hair can be seen and after fumbling around in the dark he finally finds the bed and gets in.

John lays on his good shoulder and feels Sherlock scoot closer, hesitating even though they've been doing it for a week now and he reaches out because he knows if he doesn't, the kid will wait until he's fallen asleep to cuddle closer. Sherlock feels like he's all knees and elbows and ridiculously thin when he curls up into a fetal position against John's chest, but he doesn't say anything, just whispers goodnight and hopes the next case won't drag them around London.

/

Days with kid Sherlock go a little like this for John, he wakes up at 7 like clockwork, sometimes Sherlock is still next to him, but today he isn't. John goes downstairs and sees Sherlock sitting in front of his laptop, dressing gown wrapped around his small body like a blanket and probably emailing clients. He takes a shower, gets dressed and comes downstairs again only to have Sherlock breeze past him to go take a shower too.

John cooks breakfast and makes an extra cup of tea and just as he's sitting down to eat Sherlock appears dressed like a miniature adult and his hair…well, John tries not to laugh. Apparently, Sherlock had _very_ uncontrollable hair as a kid because even though it's dry now, it looks like he stood in a tornado and then tried to comb it, his hair is positively bouncy and curly and John looks away when Sherlock glares at him.

With no case to keep Sherlock occupied for the day he asks Mrs. Hudson to check in on him from time to time, because John doesn't want to think of the messes that might occur if he's left alone for hours on end. He leaves the house for work and has to push the worry that keeps cropping up to the back of his mind and tell himself that Sherlock may look like a child, but he still thinks pretty much like a 37 year old man. John receives the occasional text throughout the day, mostly things like "Stop asking Mrs. Hudson to check on me" and "I want (insert some kind of desert here)". He doesn't answer any of them, he has paper work to do and patients to see.

The day is long and boring and John has the urge-which has been happening a lot recently-to go to the store and buy whatever kind of cake Sherlock has asked for that day, because really, he wants to indulge the kid a little. So when he shows up with a bag of goodies and Sherlock smiles, actually _smiles_ at him, well, John can't resist smiling back. Mrs. Hudson appears in their kitchen a little later on and tells John what Sherlock has been up to, which he finds rather amusing how their landlady describes Sherlock's behavior. She'd apparently walked in to see him sitting upside down on the couch, with his head touching the floor and Skull resting on his chest while they chatted about something.

Eventually she leaves them and John cooks dinner and here is another thing he's noticed, Sherlock offers to help, but only if he's in the kitchen and doing an experiment. The kid actually offers to help cook and John doesn't turn him away and he hopes the habit will stick. After dinner is done, eaten and the dishes are cleared away John sits on the couch to watch crap telly and Sherlock discreetly slips onto the cushions beside him, already changed into his dressing gown and John throws an arm around the back of the couch so his flat mate can nestle closer into his side, because god forbid Sherlock _ask_ to sit beside him.

They watch a few shows, he listens to Sherlock complain about the horrible writing in his cute voice until its bedtime and John has enforced the rule of a proper bedtime for the little detective. Even though Sherlock heaves and haws about it he goes willingly and soon they're in John's bed falling asleep.

/

Nights with Sherlock, are sometimes quiet and sometimes John finds himself woken up by little sobs. He isn't used to it just yet and he realizes that Sherlock is having a nightmare and then he realizes that the poor kid has wet the bed. John sighs quietly, he remembers those days, gently he wakes Sherlock. His little flat mate gasps and tries to wipe his face before he freezes and John knows he feels it too.

"J-John," Sherlock sounds so small and meek and it tears into John's heart like the bullet that pierced his shoulder. "I'm so-"

"No, stop, don't worry about it."

Silence.

"Come on, go take a quick shower while I change the sheets."

Sherlock goes quietly while John bundles the blankets to be washed and makes a mental note to have Mrs. Hudson help him the with mattress tomorrow. He grabs a pair of pajamas and heads downstairs in time to catch Sherlock wrapped in a towel coming from the bathroom.

"We'll sleep in your bed, kay?"

His flat mate nods and disappears. John washes, changes into fresh clothes and when he goes into Sherlock's room the kid is standing by the bed, in different sleeping clothes with his arms wrapped around his chest as if he's cold.

"John, I'm sorry, I di-"

"I already said don't worry about it, let's go to bed."

He's too tired to hear Sherlock apologize and then no doubt launch into a speech about how his body acts without his consent and blah blah he just wants to go to sleep. John gets under the covers and he's hit by the faint smell of Sherlock's cologne in the blankets and feels the little detective get in beside him.

They're silent for a while before Sherlock speaks up, "I dreamt you'd been shipped off to Afghanistan again, which is entirely preposterous seeing as how you were right next to me and-"

"Sherlock," John stops him there, "separation anxiety isn't uncommon in children."

"I'm not a child John. My body is deceiving you."

"No, I think it's a lot more than that, being this small your brain hasn't fully developed and even though you're still wonderful at deductions and such, it's still the brain of...what did we decide you were again?"

"Between 7 and 9."

"Exactly and I'm sure you've noticed it too."

There's a pregnant pause and John thinks Sherlock has fallen asleep, but then he speaks, "I become tired more easily, I _crave_ sweets, I feel anxious when you're away from the house all day, I feel the need to eat more often, Anderson gets on my nerves even more now," John gives a soft laugh, "Not to mention I'm insufferably short and…"

John waits, listens to Sherlock breathe quietly before he feels the kid scoot over and then there's a face pressed into the side of his neck and Sherlock speaks so quietly he has to strain to hear.

"I want your attention _all_ the time," though Sherlock won't say it out loud, it was like that before he was turned into a child, "I want to hug you, I want to hold your hand when we walk down the street and I want to play hide'n'seek and I want more piggy back rides."

In the dark John smiles and wraps his arms around Sherlock to bring the little detective closer, "You could just ask for those things you know."

"Yes, because that's what normal flat mates do," Sherlock mutters.

"I think it's safe to say this whole situation is as far from normal as you can get."

He feels Sherlock nuzzle closer, "Fine, I'll ask whenever the mood strikes me."

"Alright, g'night Sherlock."

"Good night John."


	2. Chapter 2

disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

(A/N) Sherlock and the hardships he has to face for being so small!

* * *

It's a few days later when Sherlock gets a text from Lestrade and John is woken to the feeling of the whole bed shaking, he groans loudly and hears a rather amused giggle in response. Opening his eyes he sees Sherlock, bouncing at the end of his bed, dressed and ready to go.

"Hurry John! Someone's been killed!"

For the life of himself John is all too grateful that he figures Lestrade probably texted Sherlock, otherwise the smile on the kids face might have given him the chills. He obliges to 'hurry up' and soon he's locking the door while Sherlock ineffectively tries to call a cab, John ends up doing it for them. Sherlock hops into the seat and hurriedly spouts off the directions, the driver looks at John who nods his assent and they pull away from baker street, what a way to start the weekend.

They're dropped off near a maze of warehouses, the sky above is full of clouds and they can hear the dull roar of morning goers behind them. They spot Lestrade and his men not long after walking in and John watches Sherlock sprint ahead, his coat billowing out like always. Sally doesn't even have to raise the caution tape, the little detective ducks under it and he hears Anderson say something but he can't make out the words. Immediately Sherlock wheels on him, he sees the kid's head dip then raise and he's pretty sure Sherlock is making some accurate deductions about the man as he walks up.

Lestrade has to play mediator and Anderson stalks off to the edges of the scene. John takes his place on the other side of the body as Sherlock gets on hands and knees to observe, a couple gunshot wounds to the chest. The man is laying a pool of his own blood but there's nothing else that John can see that would indicate he had a weapon himself.

"You called me out here for this?"

John raises an eyebrow and looks to Lestrade who, even though he tries to hide it, looks a little guilty.

"I just thought-"

"This is hardly worth my time Lestrade, we're leaving."

Sherlock is already stalking away, shoulders hunched and Lestrade drags a hand over his face in exasperation before gesturing to his people to get on the scene. John doesn't stick around and jogs to catch up to his flat mate.

"Care to explain?"

"It was a simple drug deal gone badly. Lestrade was _humoring_ me," Sherlock nearly shouts.

"Oh."

"Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice? The audacity of some people!"

He smirks and they head out to the main street. The streets are busy but he doesn't see any cabs going their way so they keep walking. Eventually John feels a hand worm its way into his and he glances down, Sherlock is looking ahead and he smiles at the little detective. He squeezes the cold hand and they keep walking. It's another ten minutes before John finally drags them into a café, its bloody cold outside.

John can't help but smirk as he leaves Sherlock to sit, with his feet dangling off the chair, at one of window tables looking so childlike and innocent. Sherlock watches John as he stands in line, looking up at the menus and kicks his feet absently. Waiting is boring, watching John wait isn't though. He likes the way John furrows his brow as he thinks hard about his decision and then on occasion licks his lips, he isn't sure John even knows he's doing it.

Most of all, he likes walking around London with John, he likes sitting next to him and he likes the way John smells and he even likes John's silly jumpers. Before he knows it John is back and Sherlock stares at the drink that's been placed in front of him. He can't see the liquid underneath the whip cream on top of it and John has a cup of coffee for himself.

"What-"

"Just drink it."

He stares at the drink before picking it up, it's warm and he can smell chocolate as it draws near and Sherlock practically purrs when he takes a sip of it. John smiles and waits for his to cool off a little, he enjoys watching the little detective, Sherlock is more expressive than he used to be. They finish their drinks and set off down the sidewalks again and Sherlock says he wants to check on the homeless network again, see if there are any leads as to where the woman who had cursed him might have disappeared to.

Once again John is amazed to see his flat mate navigate the streets of London without so much as a map or a peek at his phone. By the third contact John is sore from all the walking and it's been drizzling since the first and even though Sherlock protests, he calls them a cab when they walk out of an alley way. Opening the door John waits and bites back a laugh at the sight of Sherlock, arms crossed, curly hair plastered around his face and looking defiant till the end.

The cab driver tells them to hurry up and John makes the choice for Sherlock, he grabs the kid under the arms and drags him into the back seat and shuts the door. Like a cat that doesn't want to be held, Sherlock twists and yowls at John for hindering his information gathering while John has to practically shout their destination to the driver.

"Sherlock!"

It's been awhile since he's had to use _that_ voice, but John isn't afraid to fall back on his military training to control the little hellion. Icy blue eyes glare at him and then the boy becomes 50 pounds of soggy dead weight and flops against John's chest.

"Do you want me to stay like this John?"

"What? No! Of course not, why would you think that?"

"My homeless network may have valuable information and you're keeping me from it."

Letting his head fall back against the seat John sighs, "Christ Sherlock, that's not it at all. You don't know when to stop that's why. I know being like this is inconvenient, but your body can only take so much before even you succumb to fatigue or sickness, and I can't have you running around London soaking wet."

Sherlock looks down at his hands, they're tipped red from the cold and even though he's wearing a heavy coat, his ears and nose are cold as well. So maybe John was right, but…he just really wants his body back. Sighing Sherlock crosses his arms again, partly to warm his hands up in the folds of wool and partly to show his displeasure for John's accurate reasoning.

Again John has to carry Sherlock up the stairs after Mrs. Hudson lets them in out of the rain. She flutters around them, opening the door and John lets her deal with a groggy Sherlock while he goes to change. Coming back, the windows are blurry with sheets of rain and Mrs. Hudson has the little detective swaying sleepily by the couch while she fetches his dressing gown. John takes over after a moment, reassuring her they'll be fine. Yawning he grabs a blanket from his chair and sinks into the couch unfolding it as Sherlock takes the spot next to him. The TV is turned down low and even though they haven't eaten lunch yet, they both doze.

The next time John wakes it's for just a few moments his neck is starting to hurt, shifting to lie down he coaxes Sherlock to join him and they fall asleep again to the sound of rain and reruns on the TV. What wakes John the next time isn't a crick in his neck or some sound, its Sherlock, and he's shivering. It's a little strange, they have the blanket and the kid is still wrapped up in his gown, John wipes the sleep from his eyes before pulling his flat mate closer and its then he knows what's wrong. The second Sherlock's forehead hits his throat he can _feel_ how hot he is.

Pulling back John feels his stomach drop, the kid has a fever, chills and he's sure the rest of the symptoms will be quick to follow. Looking around John thinks of what they have in the bathroom or anywhere, but neither of them gets sick often, so their supplies are on the little to none side. He feels Sherlock shudder awake and John feels his heart sink too, the kid looks haggard, pale and so fragile.

"John," and that does him in, Sherlock sounds so _small_.

"Hey."

"I'm so cold John."

He nods, "I know, you have a fever and chills."

Sherlock gives a small whine and buries his face into John's chest, trying to take as much warmth as possible. Curling closer to the boy John runs a hand through damp curls and sighs.

"I don't think we have any medicine here, I'll have to go get some."

A hand curls into his button up but John is already moving away, tucking the blanket more firmly around his flat mate.

"Don't need any medicine," Sherlock mumbles into the couch.

Rolling his eyes John goes to get his wallet and jacket, the corner store isn't too far away.

"I'll be back soon; I'll send Mrs. Hudson up to watch over you alright?"

All he gets in return is a faint groan and John is hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock hears him go and squeezes his eyes shut. Even with all the blanket to himself he shivers, his whole body aches and the fever makes his thoughts muddled. He can hear Mrs. Hudson in the flat, she says something about fluids and rest and not to worry John will be back soon, but that doesn't comfort him. Inhaling, he can still smell John and Sherlock falls back asleep without meaning to.

He doesn't know if it's been hours or minutes but Sherlock wakes to the feeling of the couch moving, opening one eye he peers up to see John looking down at him. The man is exuding worry; it's etched into the lines of his face along with the practiced eyes of a doctor.

"John," he whispers from behind the blankets.

His flat mate smiles and holds up a bowl of something steaming, "Let's get something into you before I have you take the medicine."

Sherlock nods sniffling because now his nose feels stuffed up and his throat feels raw from the sickness cloying at his body. Sitting up means moving from the nest he's created and his joints ache and his face heats up a little more when John holds out a spoonful of broth for him. He obliges though and leans forward to eat it and the warmth feels heavenly on his throat.

They get about half the bowl into Sherlock before John grabs the medicine for kids and the little detective scrunches his nose up at it. Its, unfortunately, the liquid kind and cherry flavored and he can smell how horrible it's going to taste.

"Come on Sherlock, this will help. I mean, it's bad enough you don't take any vitamins, how do you expect to get better without some help?"

Once again John holds the little plastic cup out, a cup of water in the other to wash down the syrupy concoction. It's a full 3 minutes of Sherlock staring at the cup before the boy actually moves and John chalks it up to the fever making him so amenable. The reaction is instantaneous, the second his flat mate downs the cup like a shot glass he's coughing and clawing for the cup of water in John's hand and downing it too.

"Don't ever," the boy growls softly, "make me take that again."

"Only if you agree to do as I say."

"_Fine._"

"Good, now get some rest before dinner, I don't want to see you anywhere near your experiments today."

John stands up and smiles down at the kid, even with his red nose and eyes rimmed pink he can work up a mean glare. Depositing the dishes into the kitchen John comes back and is about to sit in his chair when Sherlock makes a noise, still sitting there looking thin and oh so small. John takes a place on the couch and the little detective is quick to crawl into his lap, dragging the blanket with him so he's bundled into the doctor's arms, warm and content.

The flu lasts the weekend and into Monday, wrecking the boy with chills and nausea and John is ready to call into work but Mrs. Hudson tells him to get out of the house and not to worry. Sherlock lays in John's bed all morning and when he does get up, he roots around in the doctor's dresser and claims a jumper to keep him warm when he goes down to check on his no doubt ruined experiments.

It takes another day before Sherlock feels healthy again and John is just thankful to have his flat mate feeling better, though now the kid has taken to stealing John's shirts and wearing them around when he leaves and when he comes home. They don't even fit the kid, the sleeves are too long and it looks more like a dress than a shirt and honestly it means more laundry, but he lets the little detective wear them anyway, it's cute and makes Sherlock happy, so why not, anything to keep him happy.


	3. Chapter 3

disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

(A/N) That awkward moment when I realize I've been listening to "Who's Your Daddy" by Benny Benassi

bit of a shorter chapter this time around.

* * *

The inevitable happens and John can already feel the waves of hatred rolling off his flat mate. They'd gone to the store to buy food and come home to see a sleek black car waiting at the entrance, there was no mistaking who it belonged too.

"Can't your brother just call and chat like normal people?"

Sherlock didn't reply, only followed John up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson calling after them that they had a visitor. It's no surprise that Mycroft is sitting in John's chair, waiting, he greets him quickly and disappears to the kitchen to put the groceries away, he hears Sherlock shove the door closed.

"Hello Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

From where he is, John can see Sherlock has taken his customary chair opposite, knees drawn up and arms crossed.

"Come now Sherlock, is that any way to treat your big brother?"

Rolling his eyes the doctor goes about moving containers of body parts so the things they actually need will fit, like milk for example, he isn't one to get between two feuding brothers. They chat quickly behind him and even though he only catches a few words, the moment he walks in the sitting room Sherlock yells a profound NO at his brother. The silence that follows is uncomfortable and even though he can't see Mcycroft's face, he can see the way his hand tightens on his umbrella.

"This is not up for debate Sherlock, I _will_be intervening with your investigation."

"I will not allow you to play savior, this is my problem and mine alone."

John sits on the couch pretending to be interested by the medical journal he'd left siting there the other day and being as unnoticeable as possible.

"Please, in your condition, how do you expect to cover all of London and have anyone in their right mind believe you?"

"My homeless network is fantastically loyal but I don't bully them with black cars and secret service."

"Sherlock, you do not get a say in the matter, you are legally a minor and as such you're lucky I don't bring you home. I'm sure mummy would be delighted to see her little Sherly again."

There was no verbal reply, only the loud crash of a mug being hurled across the room to crash against the wall. Mycroft didn't look at all intimidated by his brother's outburst, even if the cup missed his head by mere inches. John had frozen in the middle of turning a page, staring at Sherlock who was standing up, fists clenched and teeth bared, looking more like a child having a tantrum than ever. Mycroft stood, regarding his brother with a tight smile.

"Leave this business to me Sherlock, I don't mind you going on your little cases, but believe me I will be having a word with the Detective Inspector before anything is passed your way."

That must have been the straw to break the camel's back because Sherlock's shoulders visibly tensed and he stormed away.

"You couldn't leave his cases alone," John sighs.

"Of course not, mind you Doctor Watson, running around with my brother on your back is hardly professional or progressive when catching criminals."

John's jaw tightens, he should have known Mycroft had seen him man handle his brother like a rag doll, but it had only been that one time.

"This is going to be torture for him. But you already know that, he's going to tear this flat apart, he won't be able to trust any case Lestrade throws our way."

"You would rather my child of a brother wander around drug dens than be somewhere both safe and under supervision?"

It wasn't exactly ideal but even John had to admit he had the same thoughts, Sherlock was just too easy to over power or snatch or do harm too, it would be so easy for someone to do the boy wrong.

"I'm glad you see it my way John, and please, if he becomes too much don't hesitate to call me." Mycroft glided to the door and left these parting words, "I will be watching very closely."

The second the downstairs door closes the little detective is back in the living room, attacking his violin in wild strokes. Better let him stew for a while John thinks and because he doesn't want to sit in on a concert of tortured strings he heads up to his room to read instead. He can still hear the erratic music but at least half the volume and before John knows it he's napping.

It's around 8 by the time he wakes with a start and shuffles downstairs to find Sherlock curled up facing the couch, brooding quietly. Dinner is quick and even though the kid doesn't join him, John eats and leaves his flat mate to stew in favor of hitting the hay early. Honestly, he didn't expect to feel Sherlock getting into the bed mere minutes later, if anything he expected more violin abuse and maybe some clamoring around in the kitchen.

What he doesn't expect is small whine Sherlock exhales, not even bothering to hesitate before diving right into John's neck, practically curling himself around the man's shoulder. John doesn't move, he holds his breath in fact and even though it's the probably the strangest thing Sherlock has done besides wearing his shirts around, he lets the boy do as he please. When the little detective is finally settled John speaks.

"Are you going to at least try to behave?"

"Don't ask stupid questions John."

John purses his lips and takes a breath deep, he isn't going to lose sleep on it and closes his eyes. He wakes a short time later to the feeling of Sherlock either doing his best impression of a beached whale or situating himself over John's chest. Exhaling forcefully when an elbow shoves into his sternum the doctor grabs the little detective's arms and drags him over, it really shouldn't be so hard, but then again it's Sherlock and nothing is ever easy. A mop of curly hair fits under his chin and he feels small hands clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"John."

"Hm?"

"I want to go to the morgue tomorrow and Molly won't be able to deny me anything while I'm like this." John laughs quietly "I should use it as an advantage for now."

"Alright, we'll go."

"Excellent, call in tomorrow."

"Fine, but just for the morning."

"Good night John."

"Night Sherlock."

/

John has never actually seen Sherlock when he was asleep as his older self, but he thinks that it's a lot like waking up and seeing little Sherlock, minus the cheekbones by a few degrees. As such he indulges a bit when he, by some weird chance, wakes up before Sherlock. It's like time is suspend for the consulting detective, he barely breathes in his sleep and the only real movement are his eyes, but that fades as well when awareness bleeds into his dreams. John can see the moment his flat mate wakes up, his whole body stills for a few seconds and then he's taking a breath like surfacing from underwater and his eyes open like two perfectly shaped diamonds reflecting the morning light.

The moment comes and goes quickly and then Sherlock is a whirlwind of movement, yawning and stretching like a cat and scrubbing at his face. And just like that he's gone from the bed, the focus of the day no doubt to charm as many dead body parts from the morgue as possible. John calls in, feigning an appointment elsewhere and gets ready as well.

They head over to the hospital, Mycroft's intentions still hovering in the air from the day before and John wonders how long it will take before Lestrade throws a suitable case their way. While Lestrade and his men as saved from the tinny tyrant, Molly however is not. The moment she sees them walk up she's frozen on the spot, mouth agape as Sherlock launches into an almost routine explanation for his stature. As farfetched as it sounds, the very tone and volume of words the kid uses should be enough to convince anyone on the fence about the validity.

So John waits, he sits off to the side as Molly brings up an assortment of body parts to the lab. He can see how flustered Molly has become, she's hovering a little more and actually able to look over Sherlock's shoulder as he peers at slides and places chemicals and flesh in petri dishes. They stay for a few hours, John unfortunately enduring the tedium that is experiments before announcing he has to get his little flat mate home so he can go to work. To his amusement means the kid hurriedly signs forms and they leave with a new crop of body parts.

Sherlock hates this part, really and truly he does. He watches John leave, the door closing with a resounding click and he's left standing alone. Already the room feels colder, his experiments less inviting and he knows for a fact it never used to be this way. There isn't a sensible reason for it so he attributes it to the stunted feelings he has now, they are erratic and unwieldy at best. Before starting anything, before tearing the kitchen apart and rearranging to accommodate the new influx of body parts he heads to John's room.

This next decision is a very important one as he rummages through John's clothes. Which jumper would he commandeer today? There's such a variety Sherlock has to wonder if John goes to a jumper emporium specifically or if he doesn't realize he's even doing it. Not that the little detective would complain, a fair amount of the jumpers actually look quite nice on the doctor and others he would gladly sacrifice for science if only to keep them away from his flat mate. Liberating one of his favorites, blue and white stripes Sherlock strips of his shirt and pulls it on. He does however, like this part, closing his eyes and pushing his nose into the fabric to smell John.

He smells like home, he smells like every single memory Sherlock has saved into his hard drive and kept safe. John is perfect even if he doesn't know it, Sherlock does. The consulting detective can see it clear as day and while he relishes the fact that he alone, as an onlooker can see it, he wishes John could. If only to understand what kind of worth he was to Sherlock and understand just how deep he'd wormed his way into Sherlock's soul.

Leaving the room he rolls the sleeves up and is unfortunately greeted to Mrs. Hudson fluttering around the kitchen. The look on her face is one of exasperation at the body parts laid out on the counters.

"Sherlock dearie, do you really need all of these?"

"Of course Mrs. Hudson."

He slides around the table, moving beakers and flasks, arranging things so that the next few experiments won't be hindered by unnecessary equipment.

"Would you like me to make you something for lunch?"

Truly he had heard her, but all she received in reply was a grunt and then more clinking as things were situated in their proper places. Opening the bags let the faint smell of chemicals permeate into the air and when he needed to clear his sense Sherlock would bury his nose into the fabric of John's shirt and inhale deeply and clear his palate. While he was pleased to have so many options in front of him, Sherlock had not in the least bit forgotten Mycroft's words. If anything, they only made him more determined to find the woman who had cursed, he would wait for John though, the man was an excellent assistant when it came to skulking around London's underworld.

Pulling out bottles of chemicals from under the sink Sherlock turns his attention to the lung sitting on the table and stops a moment seeing a plate with a sandwich on the edge of the table. He hadn't even noticed Mrs. Hudson departure. Taking a bite he allowed that much distraction before throwing himself into his work. Nothing settled his mind quite like fresh body parts and the plans to completely ignore his brother forming quickly within his rapidly shifting thoughts.


End file.
